The Nightmare, The Dream, and the Angel
by AwkwardFalafel
Summary: A little Johnlock fanfic! My first ever fanfic!


The Nightmare, The Dream, and the Angel

••• People tell you that all your dreams will come true. But they forget, nightmares are dreams too.

3 Breaths

John got out of the cab, knowing almost immediately that something was wrong. It took him 3 breaths to figure it out. He looked up to the roof and there he saw his precious angel, Sherlock. All the sounds of a busy street and a city and people faded away until it was just Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock. John swore he could hear Sherlock's soft breathing from where he was. He swore he could hear the rustle of his ridiculous coat. As Sherlock stepped up onto the ledge, John swore he could hear his shoes touch the concrete edge of St. Bart's. They stared at one another, the silence surrounding them was defeating. John raised his arm and reached his hand out to Sherlock, as if he could just pluck him off the roof and into his arms. Sherlock raised his arm to John, as if telling him it was all right, as if he didn't need any help. The held their arms this way for 3 long breaths. Then Sherlock spread his arms wide, like a bird preparing for flight. Everything inside John told him to run to Sherlock, told him he still had a chance to save him. But John stood where he was, transfixed by the image of the man on the roof. He resembled an angel, a dark angel, with his pale skin and dark curly hair. His coat flapped about his narrow frame like waves upon a shore. And all John Watson wanted was to be lost in the waves and away from all this. This was realised in 3 breaths. "Goodbye John." Sherlock's voice seemed impossibly loud and the single tear that slid off Sherlock's cheek seemed to fall impossibly slow until it broke against the hard ground with an impossibly shattering splat. Then Sherlock Holmes jumped. And John Watson ran. Ran faster than ever before. 3 long breaths. That's how long the angel fell. Until John heard the crack of most bones in Sherlock's body breaking as he hit the unforgivably hard ground. John stopped so suddenly when he heard the crack that he fell to his knees. He let out a painful sound, half scream half sob. The world kept on turning. John crawled to Sherlock, to his angel, to his raven, to his detective. Now John was sobbing in earnest as he held Sherlock's hand and wiped the blood from his face. John's tears and Sherlock's blood mixed into a pool of agony. Sherlock looked into John's eyes and held him there for 3 breaths. John was anchored in his eyes, his beautiful eyes, and he tried to memorise every smudge of colour in them. Only 3 breaths, 3 echoing heartbeats, and Sherlock was gone. John was broken. He unleashed his pain onto the world, screaming, sobbing, and cursing Sherlock's existence. And no one came to help. No one came to help the poor broken man and his fallen angel.  
John Watson sat up in bed, wiping the tears from his face. He reached for his only comfort after this reoccurring nightmare: Sherlock. Sherlock had heard John panicking in his sleep, like he frequently did when he had The Nightmare, and was already sitting up and drawing John to him. He cradled John in his long arms until he calmed down again and gradually fell asleep. Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's forehead and was content with sitting just like this for the rest of the night, watching over John as he slept. He would never tell John this, but he secretly thanked The Nightmare because it gave him an excuse to hold John in his arms. He loved how peaceful he looked when he slept. All the lines from the war vanished from his face, as if he was a new man again. John would never tell Sherlock this, but Sherlock was the only person who could make him feel not so alone when he woke from The Nightmare. The Nightmare had started about a year ago, and it was always the same. Sherlock would jump and John wouldn't be able to save him. John didn't tell Sherlock about it the first few times, but they seemed to be getting worse until one night John had gone to Sherlock's room to see if he was still alive. He stood in the doorway wrapped in his duvet. Sherlock, being Sherlock, had known immediately that something had disturbed John. He didn't say anything, only got up, went to John, and pulled him into bed. After that first time, John never really left Sherlock's bed and neither of them said a word about it. It was fairly simple, John needed Sherlock and Sherlock needed John.

-

The Broken Man & his Fallen Angel

3 months later...

John practically jumped out of the cab at Saint Bart's and started walking towards the door when he received a call from Sherlock.  
S: John.  
J: Sherlock, you okay?  
S: Turn around and walk back the way you came.  
J: I'm coming in.  
S: Just do as I ask. Please.  
J:Where?  
S: Stop there.  
J:Sherlock?  
S: Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop.  
J: Oh god.  
S: I-I... I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this.  
J: What's going on?  
S: An apology. It's all true. Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.  
J: Why are you saying this?  
S: I'm a fake.  
J: Sherlock.  
S: The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson... and Molly... In fact, tell anyone that will listen to you. That I invented Moriarty for my own purposes.  
J: Okay. Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met, you knew all about my sister right?  
S: Nobody could be that clever.  
J: You could.  
S: I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's just a trick. It's just a magic trick.  
J: Alright. Stop it now...  
S: No. Stay exactly where you are. Don't move.  
J: Alright.  
S: Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, would you do this for me?  
J: Do what?  
S: This phone call, it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?  
J: When?  
S: Goodbye, John.  
J: No... Don't...  
And Sherlock was falling, down, down, down. John ran to him. 3 breaths. 3 breaths and the angel hit the ground. But John, in his rush to get to Sherlock, was knocked over by a bike. He lay on the asphalt, dazed, before getting up and running to Sherlock. He pushed his way through the crowd and saw his raven lying on the ground with broken wings. His angel had fallen. His detective had jumped. He was alone, so very alone, and everything was just like his nightmare except he wasn't waking up. Why wouldn't he wake up? All John Watson wanted now was for this to be a nightmare, so he could wake up safely in his Sherlock's arms. But this wasn't a nightmare. He wasn't waking up. He cried over Sherlock's dead body, letting his tears mix with Sherlock's blood. He stroked the beautiful dark hair out of Sherlock's face and gazed into his cold, unseeing eyes. He looked for so long that it hurt and finally he reached with shaking fingers to close Sherlock's eyelids. He would be the last to ever look into them. Then he grabbed Sherlock's pale hand and held it to his chest, sobbing. He cried until he physically could not cry anymore. He didn't care that people were watching. It was only him, not even Sherlock was there to comfort him. Many strong hands had tried to pry him away but John wouldn't leave his angel. Finally when he had nearly given up, Molly came forward and lifted him up off Sherlock's crumpled body. John let himself be lead away, his grief making him incoherent. And no one came to help. No one came to help the broken man and his fallen angel. The words swirled around his mind, repeating over and over.

-

Angel Resurrected

3 years later...

John Watson was crying in a graveyard. It was an ordinary place for him to be in the past 3 years. Ever since Sherlock jumped. John visited his grave most nights, and would stand there for hours talking to the shiny black tombstone that read SHERLOCK HOLMES. But today was special, and John had even brought flowers. A simple bouquet that he laid in front of the tombstone with a heavy sigh. Today was the day that Sherlock jumped off Saint Bart's 3 years ago. 3 shaky breaths was how long it took John to start crying as he stood in the lonely graveyard. 3 long breaths is how long it took him to leave the graveyard once it was dark. He took a cab to 221B Baker Street for the first time since Sherlock had jumped. Just tonight he wanted to be with Sherlock again, and staying at the old flat was the only way he could think of, other than sleeping in the graveyard, and that didn't seem quite right to John. He stood in the doorway for 3 breaths before walking directly to Sherlock's bedroom. He collapsed onto the bed, breathing in the smell of Sherlock. It took John Watson only 3 deep breaths to fall asleep. His dreams went almost immediately to The Nightmare, which wasn't a surprises because he'd been having it almost every night. Except now he had no one to comfort him. The Nightmare proceeded as usual except it didn't end where it normally did. It continued on to something John had never dreamt before.  
...John attended the funeral and read aloud the eulogy that Sherlock would've wanted him to give. Later he visited Sherlock's grave and stood there talking to the new headstone. He collapsed on to the freshly dug dirt and cried. He leaned on to the grave for support. He pressed a kiss to the white words on it, letting his lips linger there for 3 breaths. He stood up and turned to leave, but turned back after a moment and looked deep into the shadows of the oak tree near his angel's grave. 3 breaths is how long it took him to figure out who it was. His angel, resurrected.  
John woke up from The Nightmare in confusion. He'd never been to the grave, that never happened in The Nightmare. And Sherlock. Sherlock had been alive in the end. John Watson felt a spark of hope. If his nightmare could become a reality, then couldn't his dream too? It took him 3 breaths to realise that something was different from when he fell asleep. He was being held in someone's arms. Someone with long pale arms who smelled like Sherlock.  
He turned his head up and stared at his dream for 3 held in breaths, before he was absolutely sure it was not a hallucination. "I'm home John, I'm home. Your angel has been resurrected." John Watson let the tears flow freely now and he pressed himself into Sherlock's chest and held onto him as if he were afraid of losing him. Sherlock held John and said nothing, only stroked his hair and pulled him closer. John was having an emotional breakdown and Sherlock was there, finally there, to make him feel not so alone in the ever turning world. Sherlock bent over and pressed a comforting kiss to John's forehead, taking 3 calming breaths before saying quietly, "I love you, John Hamish Watson. And I swear that I will never leave you alone again until I die. Watching you cry at my grave and not running to hold you in my arms was, without a doubt, the hardest thing I've ever done." John looked up, surprised to here Sherlock finally voice what he'd been thinking. "Forever Sherlock?" he asked as if a small child would, looking for reassurance in a dark world.

"Till the end of my days John."


End file.
